Chapter XXVI The Hand of Fate
The woman did not come forward immediately, but stood staring upward, in the attitude of one listening. It was a very brief space of time, to be sure, but it gave Barry a chance to pull himself together and recover from the petrifying amazement that had stricken him at the discovery that he was actually in his old lodging house.
When at length another sound from above started her toward him again, Lawrence had recovered his wits, and seized upon the only possible chance which was left him.
“Good evening, Mrs. Kerr,” he said blandly, leisurely descending the remaining few steps. “I left a few small personal belongings in my room, and——”
The expression on the woman’s face as she staggered back against the railing was so extraordinary that it fairly took Barry’s breath away. There was amazement, of course, and a quick gasp of fear escaped her lips, but in a second every other emotion was swallowed up in a kind of triumphant gloating which was horrible to see.
“So you’re back,” she said, in an odd, suppressed voice. “I begun to think I wasn’t never goin’ to see you, an’ here you are of your own free will Luck, I calls it—nothin’ but luck.”
Lawrence’s first thought was that she had been drinking, and a moment later he saw that she was creeping closer to him, with a crablike motion, at the same time maneuvering so as to block the narrow passage.
What her idea was he could not conceive, but he had no desire to be detained a second longer, especially as the sounds from above told him that Joyce and his men were already descending the ladder from the roof.
“Isn’t it luck?” he agreed, smiling genially. “Of course, I never thought I’d find you up at this hour, but, since I have, I may as well give you what you want right now.”
He thrust one hand into an inner pocket, as if to produce something, and the next instant had leaped forward, snatching the candle from her as he did so. As he darted past her in the darkness, he felt a futile clutch of hands on his coat, and then her voice was raised in a series of piercing shrieks: “Help! Murder! Jim! Jim!”
Taking the stairs in great leaps, Lawrence thought he had never heard such bedlam in his life. The woman continued to scream at the top of her voice. Somewhere a door was jerked open, and a man’s harsh voice, adding to the tumult, accelerated Barry’s flight.
He flung himself at the door, one hand instinctively touched the spring lock, while the other yanked it open. He had the wit to remember a second antiquated catch, seldom used, and ponderous to undo, and promptly snapped it down before slamming the door behind him.
Without an instant’s hesitation, he ran straight toward Tenth Avenue. Fortunately the street was dark and deserted, and he reached the corner without encountering any one.
As he whirled around into the avenue, he looked swiftly backward, and saw the door of Mrs. Kerr’s house burst open, throwing a shaft of light out across the icy sidewalk. Into that path of light two figures hurried—one tall, thin, and wearing a slouch hat; the other chunky and shapeless.
“My dear landlady and Jim, whoever he may be,” Lawrence murmured, as he started briskly south on the avenue. “I wish ’em the joy of their hunt for me. What an old harridan that woman is! She positively made my flesh creep when she was coming at me in the hall. Wonder what she was after?”
He did not waste much thought on the matter, however. Very likely the woman was drunk, and it was rather startling for her to encounter a man who did not belong in the house. At all events, it was immaterial. He had managed to get out of the scrape successfully, so he devoted himself to brushing off his coat and hat, and putting on his gloves, while hastening toward the car line on Twenty-third Street.
He was more than thankful for the whim which had caused him to wear a soft hat of black velour. It had stayed with him through all the excitement of the evening, and now needed only a deft touch or two to make it quite presentable.
As the car bowled eastward at a good clip, Barry chuckled one or twice at the thought of Joyce’s discomfiture when driven back to the roof by those piercing shrieks from Mrs. Kerr.
“He’ll be mad as a wet hen,” he thought amusedly. “Serves him right, though, for trying such a game.”
Altogether, Barry was very much pleased with the way things had turned out. While he had come no nearer to solving the mystery which seemed to surround him, he had at least learned the lesson of caution, and it would be an extremely difficult matter to catch him unawares as he had been caught to-night.
He was very much annoyed, of course, at having been forced to break his engagement with Jock and the others, but that had not been his fault, and his explanation must appease them. It was only half past ten now, and perhaps he could get hold of the Yale man that night. Hamersley would certainly be entertained by a recital of the evening’s experiences.
Entering the lobby of the St. Albans a little later, he was hurrying toward the telephones with that idea in mind, when one of the clerks stopped him.
“Just a moment, Mr. Lawrence,” he called. “Here’s a letter for you, which should have been delivered yesterday. It was sent to the St. Athol by mistake, and reached us after you went out this evening.”
Barry took the letter, and stared at the unfamiliar writing in a puzzled way. Then he tore open the envelope, and hastily took out the several sheets of closely written note paper it contained. The next instant, as he caught sight of the inclosure, his heart began to beat loudly and irregularly, flooding his face with flaming crimson.
It was a crisp, new ten-dollar bill, and, though he turned the pages with slightly trembling fingers to find the signature, it really was not necessary. Deep down in his heart he knew that it was from Shirley Rives.